


Don't Blink

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC, F/M, M/M, Mary Morstan as Original Female Character, Oral Sex, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, mention Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reporter Mary Morstan happens to be at St. Bart's when Doctor John Watson sees his best friend jump.  Over the course of months, she becomes Watson's friend, then lover.  What will happen when Sherlock reappears from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Blink

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to 221btls and my two girls for making me do this. Let's meet at the Ram's Head for a pint, 221btls!
> 
> Mary Morstan, although she did and will exist, is not based on canon. 
> 
> The usual disclaimers: if you know it, it isn't mine.

 The TARDIS landed with its usual barrrrrring! Brrrriiiing! 

No. That's not right. The TARDIS doesn't ring.

Mary slowly opened an eye and realized no TARDIS. But her Doc was on his phone, bloody hell at ONE in the morning?? They'd only just fallen asleep, what, maybe thirty minutes before. Mary smiled at THAT memory. No better way to end a Doctor Who marathon than slow, sensual sex and cuddling down into sleep.

“What? When...yes. Yes.” Doc threw the phone onto the mattress and grabbed whatever clothes he could find. Jeans inside out and under the bed. Pants. Her Doctor Who t- shirt, no socks, trainers, phone, out of the bedroom, out of the flat. Not a word.

Mary rolled onto her left side and pulled John's pillow over, inhaling his scent. His posh shampoo smelled exotic and almost out of place with the rest – the Ivory soap, the Tesco's shaving cream. 

“Well, Skully, where do you think he is tonight?” she asked the skull sitting on John's bedside table. “A&E need him? Or Lestrade?” Skully didn't answer. He never did. He stared at her, and made her feel a bit idiotic. She would never admit to John that she sometimes thought of Skully as Sherlock. Doc said that when he and Sherlock would work crime scenes, he was always watching. Judging. Plus, if she had to admit it, she felt like the ghost of John's dead best friend was absolutely present in their relationship.

“Really? You're going with Lestrade? I'm going with really horrible bus accident, tourists spilled left and right all over the street...No! The Queen. Oh! The Queen in a bus accident! Oh Skully, I just crack myself up. I might as well text him.” 

She sent a generic 'Alright, Doc?' text, and then rolled out of the bed. “As long as I'm awake, I'm gonna get a soda. Do you want anything?” She swore Skully raised a non-existent eyebrow.

Mary found her pajamas that had been hurriedly thrown around the room earlier, in an effort to be skin to skin with Doc as quickly as possible. Panties. Wriggling back into Doc's sleeveless tank top, she grabbed the blue silk dressing gown off the back of the door. She rubbed the worn silk against her cheek and smelled John's posh shampoo and something new, like exotic spices and smoky woods. She sighed. “I love that man,” she said to Skully as she left the room and padded to the bathroom then the kitchen. “I'm eating the rest of the Jammy Dodgers,” she yelled behind her, for the sake of Skully. 

Mary wandered to the living room. The couch was delicious—warm leather, soft and well worn. It was comfortable to lay on and.. well.... 

Telly? No. Nothing on at this time, and she only liked to watch Doctor Who with Doc. It was their “thing”, as her mama would say. Once she realized that they both rabid over the show, she called him Doc instead of John. Especially since he was a doctor. They'd been down to Cardiff to the Doctor Who Experience and sought the different locations where scenes had been filmed. This fall, when the show starts filming again, they planned to go to Cardiff and watch.

Call Mama? It was only 8:30pm in Atlanta. Her Mama still had trouble with the time difference, even though it had been almost two years now. After graduating high school at 18, Mary spent three years working full time for Atlanta-area blogs before starting college. With the opportunity to spend a semester studying Journalism in London, Mary didn't hesitate, and six months later, she was back with her diploma and a job in hand. She covered social events and happenings for the local paper's website. It wasn't as exciting as a crime column for the Times or scandal for the Daily Mail, but she loved her job and her new home.

Mary flipped her iPhone in her hand a few times. Mama knew about Doc, but not the finer details, like their age difference or where Mary slept most nights. This weekend she'd pack a traditional Southern picnic including home-made fried chicken and potato salad (Had he ever even eaten potato salad?) and broach the subject of canceling her lease on her flatI the hour away. It's not like it was home, she thought. She had few sentimental items—the framed photo of her family from her last Christmas home, a few Doctor Who knickknacks and three of her favorite books, including her favorite Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. 

“If we live together, we are going to have a rule about returning texts,” Mary said out loud, glaring at the blank phone. “Well isn't that wizard. I'm talking to myself OUTLOUD now. I can't even pretend it's Skully.” She settled farther down into the aged, mocha leather couch. She loved it because it was well worn and well loved—and she had been well loved on it many times. Orange blanket around her, head on the Union Flag pillow, scrunched down into the indentations in the couch cushions. She tapped her mobile against her hand, thinking about how she was going to explain fully these past months to her Mama.

Her first few months at the Hampshire Hot Spot blurred together, rewriting press releases and finding details about social gatherings. Mary longed to sink her teeth into an investigation, maybe an amazing murder with a stash of decomposing victims. The closest she came were whispered rumors of a secluded widow living in a guarded estate, who was either bat-shit crazy or “licensed to kill”. In her off hours, Mary searched for further information about the widow Holmes. She could smell a story in the amount of security patrolling the perimeter of that estate.  
Mary's boss shared what he knew: the elusive Mrs. Holmes had two sons, Mycroft (“who holds a minor role in the British Government,” her boss rolled his eyes, clearly thinking he walked in Mummy's career footsteps) and Sherlock Holmes (another eye roll-- “a consulting detective”). She decided to ask her old friend, Google.

Google brought her to two main websites. One, the Science of Deduction, explained ridiculous theories of 243 kinds of tobacco ash, and how Sherlock Holmes could tell an airline pilot by his left thumb. The other was the blog of Doctor John H. Watson, detailing cases that Holmes solved. Time to find Mummy through the back door.

With permission, Mary emailed Doctor Watson. He responded that night, explaining that Sherlock never speaks to anyone and definitely NOT reporters. Secondly, they were quite wrapped up in the James Moriarty trial. 

She dashed off her response: “You'll need to eat even during a trial. May I buy you lunch one afternoon next week?” She included a link to her website's column.

He responded quickly, saying that he would keep her information and call after the trial. The shock of Moriarty’s “not guilty” verdict and a rapid succession of cases kept the men too busy to talk to a reporter. Mrs. Holmes was on the back burner, and Mary was back to who invited whom to tea. 

On her one year anniversary, Mary took a week's vacation from work. Watercress sandwiches and Tea would do without her, while she spent a few days in London trying to meet the elusive Holmes and Watson. Armed with a street address from Watson's blog, she took the train to London with a few clothes thrown into her backpack to tide her over til she returned home. “June 15, 2011 I stood here at this train station knowing nothing, and now...” but the thought was lost amid the throng of passengers that swept her to the street.

The walk was pleasant—a bit chilly at 19 degrees for the Georgia girl—but sunny. Her TARDIS hoodie warmed her and her jeans and trainers were comfortable as she walked.

As she crossed the street near St. Bartholomew's Hospital, she almost bumped into a sandy haired man on his phone, too intent on talking to notice where he was going. Before she could say anything, a bicycle sped through and knocked the sandy blonde man down, and out of the corner of her eye she saw something large and black flying... no... falling. 

It happened so quickly—too quickly—the large black—oh my God it's a person, hit the sidewalk and the sandy haired man pulled himself up from the ground and ran to the sidewalk, almost collapsing again as he looked at the body lying in a pool of blood. “Let me through. I'm a doctor...he's my friend....oh God. No!” Her heart broke at the pain in his voice. 

Mary picked up the man's phone and sought details.

“That's the Reichenbach hero... that detective...Sherlock Holmes. Did you see it?” the policeman asked Mary. She wanted the first details of the story, so she acknowledged what she'd seen and soon police swarmed around her, asking questions and taking her statement. She gathered facts from what she heard, writing the story in her mind.

“Where are you?! --GL” chimed the man's mobile in her pocket. “Assuming you're at Bart's. Don't move. I'll be right there. GL” 

Mary phoned the breaking news in to her office (Finally! Maybe I can get off Tea and Crumpets and into real news!) while she moved around the area, listening for information and looking for the phone's owner, who she now realized was Doctor Watson. He sat alone in the back of the ambulance, wrapped in an orange blanket. Mary went to him, held his hand, and made sure the shock blanket stayed on. “No. No. He. No,” John cried into Mary's shoulder. She didn't even know this man, but no one else stepped forward to help him, to comfort him, so she stayed.

Later, much later, the Detective (assuming Mary was John's friend) asked her to take John back home. She took him back to Baker Street, finding his key in his jacket pocket. John stood sobbing, lost, in the living room. Looking around at his life. His past life. Gone now. Done. He almost fell to the floor, but Mary caught him and guided him to the couch. She made him lie down on the couch, took off his shoes, covered him up with the orange blanket folded over the arm (Really? A shock blanket here?!) and went in search of something to help John sleep. 

Not in the bathroom. The kitchen cabinets had bottles displaying poison warnings, but nothing she could identify as a medicine. Eventually, she found a bottle of sleeping pills in a medicine kit in the upstairs bedroom. She sat him up long enough to take the two pills with water, and held him while his body shook with grief. Slowly she lowered him back to the couch, and sat next to him, in the small space his curled legs left.

The Detective Inspector came by and questioned Mary relentlessly until he was sure she was who she said she was. Her reporter's ID badge may have done more harm than good, as DI Lestrade now assumed she thought she had a prize winning story. Eventually, she sent him away, promising to tell Dr. Watson when he woke up that the DI had been there.

In the small hours of the morning, the living room dark except for the street lamps through the picture window, Mary woke with a start. Her computer, which had slid off her lap, was still warm, so she hadn't slept long. She uploaded her article, which she hoped was fair and didn't impose on the Doctor's grief. She was here as a human and not as a reporter, which was going to be hard enough to prove soon.

An email came through... “Shit! I didn't turn the sound off!” 

“Sherlock? Sherlock is that you?” John whispered, groggy from the medicine. His face found Mary's. “Who the FUCK are you?!”

He struggled to stand up while Mary tried to keep him on the couch. “I'm helping out Detective Lestrade. He let me be here,” she answered quietly, trying to calm him.

“Where's Sher...oh my God, Sherlock.” He stayed on the couch this time, rolled in on himself, shaking under the blanket.

“I'm Mary Morstan,” I explained. “Maybe you remember; I've contacted you several times for an interview.” John's face twisted in anger... “No let me finish, please—I finally just came to London to meet with you and Mr. Holmes, but as I was nearing St. Bart's, you were on the phone, and you bumped into me, and then you dropped your phone and ran and fell and it was so horrible, and I just wanted to give your phone back but no one was with you, taking care of you, and I couldn't stand it, so I stayed with you, and then Lestrade figured I was a friend of yours and asked me to bring you home.” Mary tried to say it all in one breath, so he wouldn't cut her off. “I gave you two sleeping pills at 7pm and now it's 2 in the morning, and I've just sat here holding your hand and covering you back up, and yes, I did file a story but just the minimum of what happened, I would never take advantage of you, and my sound was up and when an email came through you woke up and I'm sorry and if you want me to leave I will.”

He was already asleep again. Mary made more tea to help her stay awake, and sat on the floor by the couch and held John's hand. She turned the television on quietly, and ignored it until Lestrade rang the doorbell at 10am.

Mary hurried down the 17 steps, trying to avoid another doorbell ring which would wake John. Lestrade followed Mary slowly back up the stairs, treading heavily, reeling from the loss of his friend. Yes. His friend.

He sat with Mary at the kitchen table (at the tiny space cleared of Sherlock's current –oh God--experiments) and asked her to repeat what she had seen, questioning details, pulling more out of her than she knew she remembered. John appeared in the doorway, the orange shock blanket wrapped around him, and looking as if it had been he who jumped.

“Greg... I...Sherlock...” and he hugged Greg in a fierce hug, looking for a new truth. Greg offered up his seat, and John sat down to a cup of tea and toast from Mary. He pushed the plate back away, like he would be sick if he even tried a bite.

“Who. Are. You.” John finally pulled together enough to ask, staring at Mary. 

She repeated her story quickly. John stared at her, not even knowing what to say and absolutely not trusting that every minute of the last 12 hours wouldn't be splashed over every newspaper including pictures of him sleeping. He said as much, plainly hurting Mary.

“I just couldn't bear for y'all to be alone,” she answered, lamely. Damn that Southern accent; the more exhausted, the thicker it became. “Now that Greg is here, I'll gather my items and leave y'all alone.” Computer, backpack, hoodie, shoes.

“Detective, I emailed you a copy of what I sent to the website. That is all I have sent. I have no photos. I would never exploit anyone's grief. I'm the watercress sandwich and tea social circuit lady. I may not want to stay there the rest of my life, Doctor Watson,” she said, muffled by the hoodie she was trying to jam over her head, “but I would never abuse someone's worst moments.” She handed Greg her business card, grabbed her pack, and dashed down the steps, out to the street, not even stopping at that cafe for a take away coffee.

Mary took the train back home and avoided the reports and gossip surrounding the death of the fake genius.

Her paper sent a feature reporter to the funeral. Mary had no idea if it were proper for her to go, but for her own closure, she dressed in black and switched out her regular fuchsia backpack for a navy blue, and once again took the train into London. The graveside funeral was not well attended. Doctor Watson stood close to the grave, holding up and being held up by an older woman (Mr. Holmes' mother? A friend?). A ginger haired gentleman stood ramrod straight on the opposite side of the grave, umbrella in one hand and handkerchief in the other. He dabbed at his eyes, which was his only outward sign of sorrow (the elusive older brother?). Detective Lestrade caught my eye, and nodded hello as he stood next to a woman with dark hair, long with curls, who kept her head bent and stared at the ground during the service. 

As the minister closed his prayer book, John stepped forward to throw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. His knees buckled and the older woman stepped forward to help, her frail body providing enough support to keep John upright. The ginger man bent slowly to gather dirt, and a sob escaped from him. He gently dropped the earth through his fingers, and composed himself before he stepped back. No one else stepped forward. 

The few mourners turned to leave, and Mary watched the ginger man attempt to comfort Doctor Watson. Watson looked straight into Ginger's eyes, ignored the outstretched hand, executed a perfect about face, and walked away with the frail woman, leaving Ginger standing alone. Doctor Watson walked past Mary without recognition. When everyone had left the site, Mary stepped forward and bent to pick up a clump of earth and grass. As she released the earth, she whispered, “Fair winds and following seas, Mr. Holmes. I offer you grass to remind all of us that death is the start of a new life.” Mary wiped her dirty hands against each other, and blew a small kiss. “I still believe in you, Mr. Holmes.”

The website nixed the entire Mummy Holmes story and Mary returned to reporting on births, weddings, deaths and parties in between.

The next week, Mary texted Doctor Watson, a brief message:

This is Mary Morstan. I had the honor of meeting you and Det. Lestrade under difficult circumstances. I am so very sorry about Mr. Holmes. I am worried about how you are doing. Would you be willing to let me know if you are doing OK?

What a stupid text. But what else could she say? Hey y'all! Just checkin' in on the guy I spent the night with...Within the hour, her phone chimed.

 

**Thank you for all that you did for me, Ms. Morstan. I appreciate your kindness and am so sorry that I was not equally kind to you that morning. Please accept my apology.--JW**

 

_You are most welcome. Thank you for the apology although it is not necessary. --MM_

 

No response. None really needed, she guessed, and turned back to the party details for the Lord and Lady's 10 year old labradoodle.

Several weeks later, Mary sent another text. 

 

_Just checking in again, Dr. Watson. I know you are not fine, but is there some way I can help? --MM_

 

**No, thank you. --JW**

 

_Det. Lestrade, this is Mary Morstan. Do you need any further information from me? My email is MarMor@gb.mail.uk_

 

**We are finished. Keep an eye on your newspaper for details—Lestrade.**

 

Mary scanned her paper's website. Nothing. It wasn't until mid-August, two months after The Jump that the Daily Mail featured the story front page: Suicide of REAL Genius. According to the Chief Inspector at New Scotland Yard, James Moriarty masterminded an elaborate hoax to discredit Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective who had assisted NSY in solving complex cases. Police had found Holmes' phone on the roof of Saint Bart's; he had been clever enough to record much of the conversation between himself and Moriarty, before Moriarty blew his brains out and Holmes jumped. Relieved and uplifted for Dr. Watson's sake, Mary continued to text him every few weeks, and he continued to answer. Sometimes, briefly—very briefly, one or two words—and sometimes, a conversation in text. Never revealing, never more than friendly, but Mary genuinely liked this kind man who had suffered. 

By February, as the text responses were more often conversations, Mary took a leap of faith.

_I am taking some much needed vacation. I will be in London tomorrow, Thursday and Friday. May I take you for lunch? --MM_

 

**I don't know. Text me when you are here and hungry. --JW**

Even grieving doctors need to eat, and John agreed to meet Mary at Speedy's because she knew where it was, and he didn't have to go far. He met Mary out front, and he drank coffee while she enjoyed a sandwich. Enjoyed might be an overstatement. 

“The food here is dreadful,” John finally said, after watching Mary valiantly try to eat her sandwich. 

Mary laughed loudly, but then covered her mouth. “Why are we here?!” she asked, her eyes still laughing. John smiled and said, “Good coffee.” The conversation stalled, and Mary said, “Thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me. I wanted you to meet me again under better circumstances. And I wanted you to know I wasn't weird.” John raised his eyebrow, “Maybe my TARDIS hoodie isn't helping,” Mary acknowledged. John laughed genuinely that time and said, “I don't think that is odd at all. I love Doctor Who. I probably have a half dozen Doctor Who sweatshirts, some dating back 15-20 years.”

“Were you watching from the crib?” Mary teased. 

“You're kind, but I'm probably old enough to be your father,” John replied, looking down into his coffee and adding a sugar that he quite forgot he didn't take.

“Well now, my Daddy is 55. You are not 55,” Mary said. “I don't play coy. I'm 27 almost 28. You are, what? 32?”

John blushed again. “Yes 32, for the past 7 years.” 

Shocked at his age, Mary blurted, “well butter mah butt and call me biscuit.”

“I beg. Your. Pardon?” John stared, taking in this odd American creature. 

“I am so sorry. Sometimes those Southern phrases pop out when I don't want them to. I meant to say, 'I am properly surprised by that number, Dr. Watson.' Was that more British?” she asked, in her very best British accent.

“No. Just. No. Please don't,” John cringed. “That was the WORST accent I've ever...”

Mary's iphone chirruped, the alarm reminding her that she had an interview at the museum in 30 minutes. “Oh man, I am so going to be late! It's kind of a working vacation,” she admitted, as she threw money on the table to cover the lunch. “Dreadful lunch, but wonderful conversation. Thank you for meeting me.” She quickly gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek before she could change her mind. “It was ever so lovely to see you again, Guv'nor. Ta!” She giggled and headed for her interview.

 

**Dinner tonight? Somewhere better? But only if you NEVER attempt a British accent and you say that biscuit thing again --JW**

 

_Love it, but I only brought knock about clothes, so nothing too fancy. Text me the info --MM_

******

Dinner at a pub was delicious and Mary needed it. She definitely felt that one pint she'd drunk. No need for a second! She and John talked easily, about Doctor Who, and the best doctor (5 for Classic, 10 for new) and the best companion. John expected Mary to say “Rose Tyler”--people often do-- but to his surprise, Mary offered, “Martha Jones.”

From John's expression, she knew she needed to explain. “Everything Martha did, she did willingly and with love, even though she knew he never fancied her and never would. She was the strongest companion, who did what had to be done solely because it had to be done and was the right thing to do, not because of what she could gain. Through it all, she never stopped loving him knowing his heart belonged to his true love, Rose.” 

John's mouth hung open. Mary reached across and pushed up his lower jaw with her finger. “Ha. I'm more than just a pretty Southern Belle face, ya'll,” she said laughing, in the thickest genuine accent she could affect.

Doctor Who. Torchwood. Merlin? Mary's home in Georgia. John's work her and in Afghanistan. “Oh my God, it's midnight. I need to get back to the hotel! I'm going to turn into a punkin!” John stood up and offered to accompany her, but she declined. “I'm good. Besides, you look exhausted. Thank you for a great evening,” she said, and leaned in for a quick hug.

John also leaned in, and tried to kiss Mary. “None of that now, Doctor Watson,” she said. “I've had too much to drink and my judgment is questionable. Who knows what would happen!” Mary winked and walked off out the door.

On Thursday, Mary played tourist and fell into bed that night, hungry but bone weary from walking to do anything about it. Asleep before she could think again, her stomach rumbled but it didn't even wake Mary.

 

**Are you going home tonight or tomorrow? Do you remember Det. Lestrade? When I mentioned you were in town, he suggested we meet tonight at the Ram's Head. Where we went to on Wed. --JW**

 

_That sounds like fun. Let me see if I can extend the hotel one more night. --MM_

 

**Stay my guest room? It's the least I can do. I'll be a proper gentleman. --JW**

 

_TYSM! Meet at 221 Baker Street? --MM_

 

**224, Flat D. Across from Speedy's. I promise. No eating there. Ever. Come at 7pm if convenient.-- JW**

 

_As it is 7 am now, it is short notice, but I will try to make it :) – MM_

Five minutes early, she rang the doorbell at 224, and John buzzed her in. Nothing upscale, but the building had been renovated recently (the smell of paint lingered), and the lift worked, taking her to the second floor of flats. John stood in his doorway and this time, he greeted her with a hug. He gathered his green jacket with corduroy elbow patches, and showed Mary out of his flat. “I'll show you around properly when we get back,” he said. “I just moved over here. There is a lot to do. However, I work a lot of hours at the clinic...” His voice trailed off.

Mary took his hand and squeezed it. She understood the comment, and when she let go of his hand, his searched hers out again. They walked the few blocks to the Ram's Head in companionable silence, dotted by small talk about the weather and the tourist sights.

Detective Lestrade had already grabbed a booth, and waved them over. Mary reintroduced herself to the detective, who waved her off. “Of course I remember you, Mary. I will never forget your kindness to my friend here.” He clapped John on the back. “And you, John. What is that growing on your face??” John stroked his mustache and chuckled.

John ordered three pints, but Mary changed hers to Diet Coke. “I just prefer it. Plus, I get drunk too easily,” and both men leered and whistled. “There'll be none of that, guv'nors,” she said in her terrible accent. “I'm a good girl aye am!”

“Oh, that was bad,” Lestrade said over the noise and cheers in the bar, as the night's first Karaoke singer took the stage. “I don't know what will be worse: Mary's accent or karaoke. Do either of you sing?” Through dinner they laughed at stories of bad notes, forgotten words, and hysterics on stage.

Lestrade said through tears, “John, do you remember that night that Sherlock sang Lady GaGa at Karaoke night trying to keep an eye on the suspect in the pub robberies?” Mary waited for John's reaction, but he only laughed harder. “In the middle of singing  Paparazzi,” John sputtered, “Sherlock switched to Papa Don't Preach by Madonna because he didn't remember the next line. I didn't even know he knew Madonna!” 

Greg, who between the laughter and the alcohol could barely speak, picked up his knife and sang, “Baby, you'll be famous. Chase you down until you love me. Papa-papa-”  
“Papa Don't Preach...I'm in trouble deep,” John broke in, barely getting the words out through the laughter and tears. “And then, he did that back bend like she did in the videos?”

“STOP! I... CAN'T. … BREATHE!” Lestrade doubled over, holding his side.

The Karaoke night was likely every bit as bad as Sherlock had been, Mary thought, as they gathered their jackets and bid each other good night. John and Mary walked leisurely back to Baker Street, laughing and talking about Lestrade. John shared some of their history, weaving Sherlock throughout the stories and sometimes, not even remembering to flinch.

“I have the couch, which turns into a bed, and I do have a guest room,” he said, unlocking the deadbolt and ushering her inside, with his hand on the small of her back. “I've stored unopened boxes and some extra furniture in there. Look at it, and see if you would prefer the couch. Or, you can have my bed and I can sleep out here.”

John pointed Mary toward the bedroom and the bathroom and brought two beers from the refrigerator. “The bedroom is great,” she said, “Thank you again. I don't make a lot at the blog—,” she said, apologizing for imposing. He handed her a beer, but remembered, “Drunk too quickly! I remember. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Ohhhhh hot tea. Have you ever had Sweet Tea?” she asked, as she sat own on the soft leather couch, almost the color of her tea John handed her. 

“I take my tea with cream only,” John said, and Mary belly laughed. John wasn't sure why she was laughing... a lot of people use only cream...

“No! Sweet Tea is a cold drink...”

“What?! Cold TEA? That's barbaric!”

“It's wonderful on a hot day...a tall glass of sweet tea, filled with ice...” 

“Why Ah de-clare, Miss Scahlett. You are a Souther'n bay-ell,” John said, laughing now at his own terrible accent.

“NO. Just... no. I SWEAR I will never again attempt a British accent if you swear y'all will never again try whatever THAT was! Oh my god, my sides hurt too much from laughing...” John sat down next to her on the couch and looked into her eyes. This man, sadness but also laughter. He was so... nice. Kind. Good.

She pulled her eyes away before she kissed him and said, “I'll bet there's some Doctor Who somewhere on the BBC,” as she reached for a remote and broke the moment. She was asking for trouble getting involved with someone as close to tragedy as John Watson. Was eight months far enough? Grieving enough?

The TARDIS appeared on the telly, popcorn appeared in her lap, and they luckily tuned in to a scary episode with the 10th regeneration and Martha. 

“Don't Blink. Don't even blink,” Mary said before The Doctor could.

“Blink and you're dead,” John continued.

“Hey! You're a doctor. And I'm your friend. We can be The Doctor and his Companion!” Mary gasped, almost spilling the popcorn bowl on John. “Oh! I'm going to call you Doc!” and they laughed again. They did agree not to call her “Martha” ...

BBC aired Martha Jones' last three episodes after “Blink” but neither noticed, sound asleep curled on each other.

Sunlight streaming through the large window woke Mary. “Yikes, my neck! Shit! It's 10am! I have to be back at work by 3!” Mary tidied up at breakneck speed, and Doc relaxed and smiled, while he watched the whirlwind. He accompanied her to the train station, and pecked her cheek good bye. Mary leaned in, thinking about John's strong arms, his handsome face, how her fingers would feel in his hands, down his back, and …

Stop! That would be bad. That might be bad. Would it be bad? She wondered and she bought her train ticket and found a seat. Her phone chirped the text message alert.

 

**Thanks for coming to London. It was the best time I've had in a long time. Do you always have weekends off? Would you want to come back next weekend? --JW**

 

She read the text message in his voice. Yes. Bad.

 

_I get maybe one wk end off a month, but I do get two days off in a row. Next weekend is the beginning of March. 3wks._

 

**Would you want to come here that weekend? Stay here. On the couch or the guest room. Or where ever. We can do touristy things. --JW**

 

_Well Doc, if y'all promise some DW and popcorn, I'm in! – Your Companion, MM_

 

Mary smiled, and her heart lifted. She liked this man. She liked him more than she should, knowing that he was still grieving his best friend. Mary didn't want to replace Sherlock or be a substitute. But she couldn't deny that beautiful warmth in her smile or in her chest.

*****

The three weeks passed in a flurry of texts, emails, Skype, A&E shifts and deadlines. John shared stories of his life in the Army and with Sherlock and how he had been processing his grief over the past eight months. Those emails broke Mary's heart. Doc's loss was as raw as if it were yesterday. She asked 

 

_Did you love him, Doc? – Your Companion_

Mary regretted it as soon as she hit send. Not her business. Well, it WAS her business because she couldn't deny her feelings for this man. But Mama said, “Not every thought needs a voice or a text, Mary.” Sigh.

That text went unanswered. Later, Mary emailed, apologizing for being too forward and nosy. Doc answered late that night.

 

“ **He was my best mate. I met him at the lowest point in my life, when I had nothing to live for. My injury took away my entire world. He swept me up into adventure, and I loved being near him, near his... genius. You aren't nosy. I'm hoping you asked because you're thinking about us, about you and me...together.”**

***

On the first Friday in March, Mary's train arrived just before the end of Doc's shift; she took a taxi to a Tesco's near Baker Street and wandered the aisles, filling her cart with treats, starting with cans of Diet Coke and popcorn and oil. No microwave popcorn this weekend. She added some Jammy Dodgers (how could she not?), tea and milk. She walked the blocks to Baker Street with her two bags of groceries, humming and enjoying the thrum of the city.

Doc buzzed her in and met her in the foyer of the building, holding the lift open for her.

He looked good. SO good. A “You Never Forget Your First Doctor” t shirt (for her benefit?). Those arms (weight lifting rehab for his shoulder?) were delicious. Tight waist. Jeans. Grrrrr.

“Hahaha you're not wearing socks!” she pointed to his bear feet. He wiggled his toes in greeting. 

“That's what blankets are for,” he said, letting the lift door close and kissing her cheek in welcome.

***** 

Four bare feet, one fleece blanket and the deliciously soft couch cushions swallowing them up. Jammy Dodgers, hot tea, hips touching, Doc's foot stroking the sole of hers. Her breath caught in her throat the first time his foot touched hers; when he slid his fingers to the back of her head, she looked into his eyes. His were open, asking, wanting. She assumed hers were, too, because after all these weeks, she needed to taste him, to feel him on her. Not “what am I doing,” but “oh God. Yes,” she thought in a small voice through the white noise of need.

Doc leaned in closer. He almost kissed her. His lips were so close, she could smell the raspberry jam still on his breath. It was intoxicating. His lips barely touched hers, stayed in close, asked, “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. 

At first John kissed her gently, but when her lips parted and she nipped his bottom lip, he took her face in his hands and deepened the kiss. Mary moaned, and Jammy Dodgers, tea, science fiction were forgotten in exchange for the growing fire in her heart.

A gentleman, Doc never moved his hands below Mary's shoulders, as he kissed her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. But Mary wouldn’t wait for him. She ran her hands up under his tee, stroking his chest and spending time on each nipple after he gasped at the initial contact.

“Doc—John—could we, would you want,” Mary stood up, taking his hand, hoping he would follow.

“God yes...” He led her to his bedroom and slowly unbuttoned her cardigan and slipped it off her shoulders. It pooled on the floor at their feet. He slid his warm hands under her shirt, stroking her skin, kissing her mouth, her cheek, her jaw. The shirt found the jacket. John stepped back and Mary whispered, “Please don't stop...”

“No love, I'm just looking at you. You are so beautiful.”

He stepped in toward her, kissing her neck, her shoulder, sliding the left bra strap off of her shoulder and with tiny kisses and tiny moans across her chest to her right shoulder. He reached around to unhook the bra. “It opens in front,” she said, and his mind (working too slowly) registered the new information.

His fingers opened the hook, and he parted the bra, her breasts tumbling into his hands. “Oh fuck Mary. Can I...”

She lifted her breast to his mouth and held his head there. He teased her nipple with his tongue, flicking it, licking around it, but never taking the nipple between his lips. 

Mary moaned louder each time he neared the hard nipple, begging him to stop teasing and suckle. Long, too long, finally he took it in this mouth, his teeth scraping it gently, and she cried out, “Oh fuck!” 

Doc looked up at her face, her eyes closed, her head back, now her body warm under his touch even though she had so many fewer clothes on. While his mouth loved her left breast, his finger and thumb stroked her right nipple. When he pinched it, her knees buckled and she swore and said, “I'm going to come just from your mouth!”

“That can be arranged,” he said, laying her slowly down onto the bed. Off came her jeans, and he spread her thighs open further, and nuzzled her panties with his nose... on the hips at the elastic band, down to her clit, pressuring it with his nose, kissing her there through her panties. 

She moaned louder, begging him to touch her, with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Mary slid her leg and found John's bulge in his jeans. He swore at the contact, “mmmm don't stop that,” he said, as she stroked slowly up and down his erection...

“You have too many clothes on,” she said. John quickly stripped down to his boxer briefs. He didn't try to hide his hardness from her. While he was standing, Mary sat up, and as he lowered himself to the bed, she motioned for him to lay next to her. 

She kissed him, passion building for the past months for this gentle man, this healer whom she wished to help heal, these soft hands that wrote to her, the lips that spoke to her. She slid her panties down, and settled back on top of John but this time, straddling his legs with her mouth near his cock. 

John reached up to kiss her, to explain how much this meant to him. He would tell her, with his mouth and with his cock, that he didn't DO this. He didn't pick up women and drop them down. Mary was important to him. 

Once her hand released his cock from his boxer briefs, and she slid her tongue down his length, John lost all thought. He focused on feeling, not thinking, and bringing her pleasure also.

Soon, too soon, without time to warn Mary, Doc came in her mouth, yelling both “Oh FUCK!” and “I'm so sorry!” Mary continued to suck him until he had finished, and she licked him clean.

“Come up here,” he said, tapping the bed on his right side. Mary moved up the mattress until she was snuggled under his arm, and he said, “I'm sorry that didn't last longer. You're the first person I've been with since...” She rolled onto her left elbow, and kissed John deeply, sharing his taste with him. “Mmmm There's no need to apologize. I rather enjoyed myself, she smiled. “Besides we've got all weekend to take our time.”

Doc fell asleep, a good deep sleep born from nightmares and nerves and the feeling of finally being safe. Mary slid out of bed, and retrieved her underwear and clothes from the floor. She looked around his room as she quietly re-dressed. The only photo in the room stood in a frame on the nightstand at the right side of the bed-- an 8x10 photo of Doc with Sherlock. She would recognize that man anywhere. Tall, slender, dark curly hair, that ridiculous coat, the scarf... always the coat and scarf. A skull sat on a pile of books—looking like all were in the process of being read--on the left night stand under the lamp. 

“Hey Skully! Where's Agent Mulder?” She thought with a nervous giggle, unsure about the etiquette of skulking around a sleeping person's bedroom. 

She used the bathroom and decided to curl up on the couch. Within 30 minutes Doc's phone jangled on the coffee table. Text message from Lestrade.

Deciding to wake Doc in the event Lestrade had a case, Mary slipped into the bedroom, and sat on the bed next to him. She ran her palm over his warm belly and chest, stroking him, whispering, “Hey sleepy head... time to wake up!”

John's eyes opened slowly, and the smile spread from his mouth to those eyes. “Hey love. I'm sorry I fell asleep,” he said sheepishly. “I'm not like that, I promise. I believe in give and take...”

“We've plenty of time to show each other what we're like and what we like, ” Mary answered, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “Plenty of time. Lestrade texted you. That's why I woke you up. I didn't read it, but I thought maybe it would be important...”

Doc laughed. “You have no idea how funny that is. That you didn't want to be rude and read my messages. I never had any kind of privacy when Sher...” He took the phone from her and scanned the text.

“Greg wants to meet for a pint at the Ram's Head. He's got plans later, but wanted to see you while you're here. What time is it now?” The bedside clock read 8:30pm. “What do you think?” He got out of bed to find his clothes, with no luck.

“That sounds great... and when we come back,” she looked at her Doctor with soft eyes, “can we finish what we started before?” Doc's smile grew, and she added, “Because I really love eating popcorn and watching Doctor Who!” 

She jumped up from the bed to dodge John's pillow, and came around behind him to kiss his neck. “You know what I really meant,” she said as she kissed his down his neck, under his ear...His low moan told her she had found a Very Good Place.

He reached out to her, to stroke her, but Mary said, “If we're going to meet Greg at 9, we need to go. Get dressed!” Pulling his clothes together from around the room, Mary handed them to John and went in search of her shoes.

****

Greg had grabbed a booth and sat facing the door. Mary and John slid in across from him, and checking to see if Greg needed a pint, John went to the bar to order two pints and one (sigh) Diet Coke.

Lestrade looked at Mary, still smiling and clearly enjoying her time with John. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it.

“Ah. Yes,” Mary said, staring hard at Lestrade. “I have no intention of hurting your friend. I know that he's still fragile. I'm not leading him on. I'm not milking him for some exclusive. Did I get it all? Oh… wait.... You would politely add that the unfinished threat that, if I hurt your friend....”

“I see why he likes you,”Greg laughed, a deep belly laugh that caught John's attention from the bar. 

“Just one of my many talents,” Mary winked. “I'm pretty good at reading people.”

“What were you two laughing about? Or, oh God, are you plotting? Please don't be plotting,” John begged as he slid into the booth. “Do I need to start drinking heavily now?”

Mary joined Greg in belly laughing. “No, I promise. It's not world domination or anything as minor as that...”

“Speaking of World Domination...” Greg whispered. 

John and Mary turned around. A ginger-haire gentleman entered the pub, clearly uncomfortable in the surroundings. His cane—no, umbrella—warded off those who might be in his way to the booth.

“Greg. You didn't. Please tell me you didn't engineer this so I would speak with Mycroft? I won't...” John's anger was in danger of boiling over. Mary had not seen this before.

“What. I'm lost...” she said.

“Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother. He was directly involved in the fuckhead who killed Sherlock... and I haven't...not even at the funeral...”

“John,” Greg began, sighing deeply. “Mycroft and I have a... we have plans this evening. It was easier to meet him here, but he wasn't supposed to be here until 11. I assumed you would be gone by then. I'm sorry.”

“What. The. FUCK.” John sputtered, almost spilling his beer. “You and Mycroft have plans?” Mary took a chance, not knowing how Doc would react, but she squeeze his thigh in an effort to tell him to shut the fuck up. Not good. She squeeze it again, a bit harder.

Mycroft stood at the table. “Good evening, Gregory,” he nodded to Lestrade. “Good Evening, Doctor Watson. Miss Morstan.”

Now Mary sputtered. “How could you know?”

“Please Mary. Mycroft knows everything about every body. Of course he knows who you are. He's probably run a full background check, regardless of the fact that you're not even English, and knows how many dentist appointments you missed when you were 8, and the number of detentions you got in school and even why.”

“Miss Morstan. It is a pleasure to meet you this evening,” Mycroft said, extending his hand to her. “Yes, I do know who you are. It is, I am afraid, an occupational hazard. I am infinitely curious about those who befriend my friends.”

Lestrade slid off the booth bench and motioned Mycroft in. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I believe that I shall wait, Gregory, until our dinner to have something. I do apologize for my early arrival. My appointment ended significantly earlier than I expected,” Mycroft offered. He grimaced as his hands touched the table, and took out a handkerchief (oh. my. God. It's monogrammed!) and attempted to wipe his area of the table before he gave up, folded the handkerchief and tucked it back into his suit jacket's inner pocket. 

“Doctor Watson—John--I would like to extend my belated condolences,” and he extended his hand directly to John.

Mary saw something pass in John's eyes. Resignation? Understanding? Compassion? as he took Mycroft's hand. The mood shifted palpably, and Mary hiccuped out of nerves and carbonation. They laughed and tried to find a common ground for conversation. Football seemed safe, with Greg and Doc loudly monopolizing the conversation. Mary watched Mycroft Holmes watch Greg. He guarded his emotions, but Mary recognized fondness—love?--in his shy smile that he tried to hide, in his eyes as Greg laughed. 

Not for the first time, Mary wondered about Doc and Sherlock. He never actually answered Mary's question, when she asked if they had been in love. Now that she knew John Watson more, had an idea of what he enjoyed, what was HIM, she realized that if Sherlock were anything like his brother—this fussy, posh, pretentious? git—there was no WAY John Watson had been in love with him. A Bro-TP they said at home when two straight guys were buds forever. Maybe they were a Bro-TP—best mates—but Doc with someone like Mycroft Holmes? Mary giggled, and Mycroft looked directly in her face and eyes, and she swore, in that moment, he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

After more football, the attempt at explaining Cricket to a Yank (even Mycroft joined that discussion), and several more rounds, Greg and Mycroft excused themselves and headed out. As Mary looked over her shoulder, she saw Greg intertwine his pinky with Mycroft's, who had moved a smidgeon closer.

“Dating?! Are they... DATING?” Clearly, Doc had been waiting the better part of an hour to erupt. Mary raised one eyebrow and let him finish. 

“I sound like an arse. I don't care...I mean, I don't care if they're dating. I'm just... bowled over by it. Last I knew, Greg was married and Mycroft found most bodily contact alarming!”

“Sometimes, life changing events make us re-evaluate who we are and what we want,” Mary suggested. Doc looked at her, and again, the sadness passed over his face. 

“Yes, those few months were so hard. All I could think of was the times we fought and all of the things I never told him,” John twined his fingers with hers and said, “C'mon, let's go home. We have a date with Martha and The Doctor...”

One weekend a month, became every “weekend” (her two days off in a row), which led them here, Mary realized. With her wrapped in his robe, knowing his scents, fully in love with this amazing man. To her thoughts of Doc and an August picnic at The Regent's Park, with Southern comfort foods and the possibility of moving to London. Sharing a flat. A bed. A life. “Well, it's too late to call Mum now,” Mary said to the empty apartment. “Three a.m. here is 10 pm there. She'll be in bed already.” Mary put her unread magazine on the table with the others she had left there the other night, folded her orange blanket, and pulled the blue silk dressing gown closer to her body. She rinsed her soda glass before heading back to bed. 

The door to the flat opened, and John stood there visibly shaking, shock and fear sharing his face with something else. Something in his eyes was different. 

“Alright, Doc,” Mary said, watching, as her Doctor slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his head in his hands. “Bad accident at the A&E?” she asked. “Was it gruesome?”

John whispered something, and Mary sat on the floor next to him. “What honey? What happened?”

“He's not dead, Mary. He's fucking alive. All this time. Alive.” His voice caught, trying to stifle a sob. 

“John that's...I mean, it's great. Isn't it?” she rubbed her hand on his shoulders, in his hair, desperately trying to help him with no idea how. She pulled him to her, and he sobbed into her shoulder. He didn't hear her. He cried harder than she had seen him even at the funeral. 

Kisses. His head. His cheeks. Wiping away his tears. Trying to kiss away his pain, 

Slowly thru gasps and sobs he told Mary. "Mrs. Hudson was the one who called. She said, 'John. He's here! In my kitchen.' She knew I would understand. I fucking ran across the street to her flat. He was sitting at her table drinking tea! For fuck's sake like nothing was fucking wrong.

“He stood up to shake hands? Hug me? I'm not sure he was ready for my fist.”

“Holy shit, did you punch him in the face? " Mary gasped

“In his gut. Knocked the wind out of him. Looked like Mrs Hudson had already belted his face. I wanted to hit him again but she held me back. She made me sit at the table and listen.”

John explained about three snipers trained on Sherlock's three friends: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John. Why Sherlock jumped. He said more, so much more, but bone weary with only 30 minutes sleep and without the back story, Mary had trouble sorting out the jumble. 

She finally pieced together that Sherlock faked his suicide. It was imperative that Moriarty’s associates believe that Sherlock was dead. Apparently Doc's tears and grieving worked, Mary thought, viciously irate at the man she'd never met but who played John's life perfectly, like a violin. The past year the detective turned assassin dismantled Moriarty's organization and deduced that it was safe to come home.

“We're safe, and he is back," Doc said. 

“Well now. He hasn't answered to me," Mary said. "I don't care who he is, no one hurts the man I love." Doc sat straighter against the wall and looked in her face, which showed not one ounce of mercy or forgiveness. She'd said she loved him. Outloud. To him. For the first time she told him she loved him.

He leaned toward Mary and gently kissed her, her words of love not lost on him. She kissed him deeply wanting to help heal him. Doc's hand stroked her cheek, her shoulder and then he pulled away.

“That blue dressing gown,” he asked, almost demanded. “Where did you get it?”

John never fussed at Mary for wearing his clothes. “From the back of your bedroom door. I found my clothes that you threw aside last night, and added your gown to be warmer,” she smiled with some embarrassment. "I like it. It smells like you; your soap and shampoo and something else. I didn't think you'd mind. You never wear it.” 

He leaned in again, closer, burying his nose into her neck and inhaling deeply. A tiny cry, almost silent escaped him, and then he came back to Mary, to her eyes, her lips. Her soul. He kissed her again, this time with more need. Harder. Hands. Lips. Need. Tangled as they made their way to his bed. 

Clothes thrown quickly, passion no time for neatness. The silk pooled on the floor, and John reached down and growled, "Put this back on. You looked amazing in it.”

The silk caressed Mary's erect nipples and swayed over her arse. John was not gentle this time like he was most times. He was more frantic--almost angry. Needy like she couldn't answer his body. He pushed her down on the bed and straddled her, his hands stroking the silk of her thighs and of the gown. He grew more insistent, more assertive and given their usual gentle coupling, this was fucking hot. 

He straddled her, his cock's head glistening. He buried his face in Mary's neck again smelling her hair, her sweat, her desire, and whispered, “I need you. I need you so much more than I ever knew. And I loved you from the beginning.” Mary almost wept with happiness, hearing him say he loved her. Tonight was a first for both of them.

He slid himself into her wetness and cried out in pleasure. Their bodies moved together with growing need, John's hands rough on her nipples, on her neck, pushing into her. His cock slid across her clit over and soon, much too soon, Mary felt her orgasm grow and overtake her breathing. His crashed over him seconds later almost together and their voices overlapping, her “yes yes fuck yes, God John I love you,” mixing, intertwining with his softer, “fuckfuckGod, fuck Iloveyousherlock. I always have.”

John tidied himself with his tee and then buried in the duvet and fell asleep. 

Mary rolled to the other direction, begging herself to have misheard John. There in their bed--his bed-- during their beautiful love, he told the truth. For the first time, not just to her. But to himself. She bit her lip, her knuckle, her tongue so she would not cry. This injury took away her whole world.

Mary heard her lover's gentle snores and laughed at herself. At least one of them would sleep tonight. She should have seen the markers. She asked the right question. She should have listened better for the answer. She could handle it one of two ways, but her Southern upbringing would not allow her to make the outrageous scene she deserved.

Rolling back toward John, she watched him sleep. Four am now. He slept so peacefully. No nightmares that had plagued him every night she had stayed. No tears, no waking up gasping for air, reaching for something.

Knowing the radio alarm would sound at 7am for John's day at the clinic, she rolled onto her left side at 6:30, and pretended to be sleep. The first time in this beautiful year that she had been less than honest with her doctor. When BBC radio began the news at the top of the hour, John sat up, ended the newscast, and turned toward her. Sure that Mary was still sleeping, he slid out of the bed, gathered his clothes for the day, and quietly left the room, making sure the door was closed so he wouldn't inadvertently wake her. John was always so considerate like that.

Mary sighed, pulled his pillow over my head, and lay there, begging her mind to stop hearing the whispered, “I love you, Sherlock.” She knew Doc would be back in to kiss her forehead and say good by before he left for work. He was always so considerate like that.

Once she heard the front door close and the deadbolt engage, she dragged herself to the bathroom to shower and to gather her things. The hot water ran over her hair into her face, but it didn’t matter. She cried for the first and last time, for the future they wouldn't live, the children they would never have, the quiet elder years she had allowed herself to believe they would cherish together.

Auto pilot. Gather your toiletries—toothbrush, deodorant, face moisturizer. Nothing else was hers in this bathroom after a year? She had always used Doc's hairbrush if she needed it; her bobbed hair cut never required more than fingers combing through it. She never used product. Mary had borrowed John's deodorant a few times, but after he told her the story about Sherlock deducing someone's affair because their deodorant was “for MEN!” she bought her own.

The bedroom now, please. Mary's inner voice begged her to finish. She entered the bedroom, John's bedroom, with new eyes. What is mine. Opened one drawer in the bureau. A few pair of underpants. Three T shirts, including her favorite Class of 2011 shirt from graduation weekend. She slipped that over her head, and smoothed it around her belly. Panties Zipped up her one pair of jeans that were there, and shoved her feet into red converse hi tops. Doctor Who Experience hoodie that she had bought when they ventured down to Cardiff. Mary grabbed her well loved copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy from her nightstand, and slid it into the backpack along with her TARDIS journal. Everything that was hers fit into one small backpack. 

How had she been so blind. “Y'all would think after a year, I'd have more stuff than just this, don't you Skully?” At that moment, she remembered one of her first thoughts...that Skully felt like a physical representation of Sherlock in their lives... always present. Always watching her. Always. There. 

To be fair, she believed that John believed he was happy with her. But when a soul mate comes back to life, nothing else matters. Mary took one last look around John Watson's apartment. The sofa where they explored their love for each other. The days they lazily ate toast and jam at the kitchen table, still in their pajamas at lunch time. The nights they fell asleep in each others arms. 

That spot. There. Where she had told Doctor John Watson last night for the first time that she loved him. Only to hear him moan Sherlock's name.

_Dear John,_

_I love you so much, but I won't be back. Making love last night meant the world to me. Up until you said, “I love you Sherlock.” But I think we both always knew that. his past year has been amazing, but you need to be with the person you love and need. And that's not me._

_I once told you Martha was the strongest of the companions. She adored the doctor and he liked her, but the ghost of Rose Tyler would always come between them. So this is me, getting out._

_You know where I live. If I'm wrong, you know how to find me. But I won't wait for you, John Watson._

_\--MM_

She left the notebook in the center of the worn, leather couch. She rooted through her backpack, for her “The Doctor and his Companion” shirt, and left that, folded neatly, next to the notebook. 

“Bye Skully. It's been nice knowing you. Maybe I'll go home, too. Georgia is hell in August, but so is London.”

Mary Morstan close the door on 224 Baker Street, took the lift and left the building. She never looked across the street to the window in 221B to see two men embracing and slowly kissing.  


End file.
